


and sometimes i hear you (the galaxies sing your song)

by orphan_account



Category: Free!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, nothing else tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:06:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4469855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you know there will never be another like him so you keep chasing. and there is never any reward for finishing last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and sometimes i hear you (the galaxies sing your song)

It’s somewhere between spring and autumn when you first meet him. The birds are not loud enough and the air isn’t heavy and lingering as it would be in summer. The second your eyes hit his your heart stops pumping blood into your veins substituting that with colossal doses of flame because your body feels like it’s on fire. You clasp your palms together to stop the sweaty, clammy feeling from taking over. For the first second, it works, and you smile at your soiled shoes until he glances up at you and your eyes meet his again, crimson, so much crimson, which pierce right into you slicing your skin and letting the fire engulf everything around you. In the next second he notices your anxiousness and whispers a small greeting, but your body feels lighter than air.

 

 

 

_You don’t even know what love is but you think you have fallen deep into it._

 

 

 

It’s raw when you tell him you love him, in the rain in the middle of nowhere. It’s the first time you say it and he laughs, a hearty, earthy laugh. It surprises you because it isn’t what you expected. But he has taught you already that expectations are overrated. And he teaches you again: a formula you never forget. He embroiders the foundations of every laugh he will ever laugh into your skin with white thread so you will always remember.

 

 

 

_He asks you if you ever did forget._

 

 

 

You tell him again before he leaves. Your bodies are rattling like windows in a tornado when he says goodbye. He feels like concrete against you, but you console yourself by telling him he feels like feathers; an embodiment of your fragility. You’re naked on his couch which smells like late night coffee and old coins and the material digs into your skin, leaving pink imprints when you sit up beside him. Outside it does feel like a tornado is brewing, or perhaps that is just how you see it because your head is clouded over, foggy and heaving on your shoulders. When you touch him he bruises a thick dark colour and you tell him you can set a number to the stars on his skin if he lets you.

 

 

 

_He doesn’t, not yet._

 

 

 

He’s on the phone for the first time and his voice sounds so filtered and whatever he says is caught in jagged snapshots of a transcript:

“You know how people keep diaries, like all the time. They start one and leave it be then go on to begin another. But they never really manage to finish them. Why record them anyway? Who’s going to read what your life was about? Who really cares?”

 

You respond with: “It’s like loving someone. Nobody knows how much you love them, and frankly, nobody cares. But you do it because you love them and when you don’t, it’s kinda like a diary, it’s over. Yeah, then you’ll find someone who makes you want to finish-”

 

 

 

_He hangs up._

 

 

 

When you meet him again it’s at a run-down diner in the middle of nowhere where the cutlery doesn’t match and the floor sticks to your shoes and the apple tart is limp and grey. He’s prodding at the food, jet lag imminent in his eyes and hair and you sip on a cappuccino which isn’t hot nor cold. His breathing is quiet, in small puffs of air which you can feel hitting your face each time. He tells you that he’s been thinking. He tells you that he was lonely being away. He tells you that even he didn’t know he could be so homesick. He talks about himself. Again.

 

 

 

_And you listen._

 

 

 

You offer to walk him back to the hotel he’s staying at. It’s raining again and neither of you have umbrellas so you stay dry under a bus shelter. Three buses go past and you tell him that you’ve always waited. He tells you that he is scared. He looks exhausted under the shaded light of the lamppost. His skin is orange. He takes your hand and pulls you into the rain again. It slams you back into reality.

 

 

 

_He smiles._

 

 

 

And when he says those three words it is a scar far from healing but created so long ago. It is an illusion, he is an illusion, and you don’t and can’t see him. He is a breath worth holding, a penny worth spending. Every single one of his words are pentimentos, segments of souvenirs, insignias of his fingerprints. His confessions are timeless and you cannot keep up with them.

 

 

 

_You don't have to._

 

 

 

And he kisses you, in the rain, saliva mixing with the shower of droplets, hands fisting contrasting locks like he is fifteen again but only he’s not which makes everything else so overdue it is sore to your bones which rattle in lust and cold the rain is cold but you don't care, he is a volcano he is a wildfire and he is so bright and _hot,_ his hands are burning so harshly the blood shivers so hard in his veins and they burst.

 

 

Your eyelids are stained with either tears or rain but all you see is red, red, red, he is sweltering, he is glowing, he is pulling your hair from the roots and he is kissing you like he doesn’t know how to though you know he does, that he kisses to the rhythm of his breathing he is pounding, he is drumming.

 

 

Thunder shakes you and the ground around you, and the bus shelter you are beneath provides no protection whatsoever and you are soaked, you are both soaked, to the skin and past- clothes clinging, hearts hammering. You learn again that you love breathing him in and he learns he loves the way his bare skin quivers under warm touches rather than cold ones, you love every tiny blemish on him his voice is music his touch is healing he himself is a miracle a phenomenon miles past any human comprehension.

 

 

He tells you that he loves you with every shard of his shattered glass heart.

 

 

 

Later you both carve your initials into a tree with the diamonds from his eyes.


End file.
